


flecks of obsidian

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, F/M, First Kiss, Guard Bellamy Blake, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Meet-Cute, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: (she's ark royalty, but she's not who you think) Bellamy and Harper are from different worlds in the same ark, but a broken elevator helps them realize that maybe they're closer than they think.





	flecks of obsidian

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for round three of the Chopped competition, with the required tropes of (1) character who's a renowned jerk might just have a softspot (2) characters trapped in an enclosed space (3) hesitant pre-kiss checkin (4) characters switched with another canon character (bonus) unique pairing. I've never written these two before, but I hope you enjoy!! also...wiki says harper's eyes are brown but chelsey's are definitely lighter than brown so i compromised with hazel lol sorry if that isn't right.

 

The first time he met Harper McIntyre, she stitched his upper lip shut.

He was 14, and he was amazed anyone let this child hold a needle, much less operate on him, but he was there unofficially— there really wasn’t an Ark-Standards-of-Conduct-approved way to explain that one of his mom’s clients had shoved him into a coffee table and split his lip— so he didn’t say anything.

But her hands were steady, her hazel eyes focusing intently, honey-colored hair in a tight braid.

The second time was a couple months later; another client, another injury, but this time it was a sprained wrist from when he’d tried to catch himself as he fell. The Chief Medical Officer’s daughter had cocked an eyebrow at his obvious lie of an explanation, but she set his wrist with a splint and the same deliberate precision.

The third time, she didn’t ask, just showed him how to apply the cooling salve over the burn marks. He wondered what ark royalty was doing in the medical ward, but she was good at what she did, so he guessed he didn’t mind.

The fourth time their paths crossed wasn't in the medical ward. A muttered word as his mother walked by a squadron, and Bellamy saw red; he flew at the guard and wouldn’t let go of him until a familiar voice caught his attention.

At least this time, he didn’t have to lie about the injuries.

Years passed, time went on. He learned how to set bones himself, ease burns, clean wounds, and stopped going into the medical ward. Every now and then, when his shift patrolled the west wing of the Ark, he’d feel hazel eyes on him. But then he’d look back and Harper would be laughing with the Chancellor’s son, and he was reminded of the hierarchy in the ark.

He told himself that her hands were gentle with everyone, it was nothing more than a schoolyard crush, it wasn’t mutual, and a million other reasons why he needed to get kind eyes and an easy smile out of his head.

Years passed, time went on.

Aurora died.

Bellamy rose in the guard, as word of his quick temper spread, but he had other things to worry about. Namely, keeping his sister fed.

After his shift, he’d bribe the kitchen for an extra ration, smuggle it down a freight elevator, which was almost always empty at this hour.

But not tonight.

Tonight the doors chimed their normal tone, and he hesitated when he recognized the blonde braid inside the elevator.  

The last thing he needed was for the ark’s golden girl to report him for suspicious behavior, so he made his mouth turn into a polite smile, ducking into the elevator when before it closed.

“Harper.”

“Bellamy,” she said, eyes straight ahead. He took the cue and moved to the far side of the elevator.

The doors began to close, but a beefy hand jammed in between the doors. They slid open obediently, and a Senior Guard with unsanctioned liquor on his breath stumbled into the elevator.

“Cadet,” the man slurred, and Bellamy’s back straightened automatically.

“Sir,” he said.

The man grinned, reveling in his authority, and then he realized they weren’t alone in the elevator. The doors closed, and the man lurched towards the back of the elevator. In his peripherals, Bellamy saw Harper’s chin rise, almost imperceptibly, and her nostrils flare as she blew out a controlled breath.

He’s drunk, he could practically see her thinking it, he doesn’t mean to stand so close.

“How you doing, baby,” the man slurred.

“Fine,” Harper said, voice even.

“I’d say,” the man mumbled. He leaned closer, and Bellamy saw her jaw clench.

“Sir,” he said, and he didn’t mean for it to come out so urgently, but the man’s head whipped towards Bellamy, frowning.

“What do you want?” the man said tersely.

But Harper’s shoulders dropped a little in relief, so Bellamy figured he was doing something right.

“Uh,” his mind raced, “How were rounds tonight?”

Admittedly, it wasn’t his best work, but it was late, and it had been a long shift, in a long week, in a long year, in a long last twenty-five years.

“Rounds were as usual, Cadet,” was his senior’s officer’s annoyed reply, before he turned back to Harper. “As I was saying— ”

He put his hand on Harper’s back, entirely too low, and the movement itself wasn’t necessarily condemning, but something about it reminded Bellamy of every cigarette burn and broken wrist and split lip, and he moved without thinking. The officer’s head hit the handrail with a satisfying ring as he fell, Bellamy’s clenched fist stung from impact, and Harper was at the far corner of the elevator, eyes wide.

The elevator announced its arrival on the next floor.

The man blinked groggily, an unsteady hand coming to his jaw, then the back of his head, as he struggled to land. “What the hell just happ— ”

“The elevator lurched,” Bellamy lied quickly, pulling the man off the ground, “Sub-C is you, right?”

“I don’t remember—”

“Ah, you’ll be alright in the morning, sir. Hey, you!”

A janitor was sweeping the corridor, and looked up at Bellamy’s call. He took in the fading Senior Guard, the conciliatory Cadet Guard, and moved to help for fear of consequences if he ignored them. Bellamy unloaded the guard unto the Janitor and turned back to the elevator.

Which was still there.

A small hand was holding the door open, and Bellamy quickly stepped back in; Harper pulled her hand back and hit the button for the doors to close. The elevator lingered on Sub-C, and Bellamy felt Harper’s eyes on him so he took great pains in examining his knuckles.

He doubted he'd bruise.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Harper’s voice was quiet, curious.

Bellamy shrugged, still looking at his hands. There wasn’t really a way to explain that he hated just about everything on the ark—the recycled air, the twisted system of ‘justice’, the rations and the simulated sunlight—but nothing more than men who thought women were there for the taking. Men who'd use a woman in secret, beat her child, leave her with a baby who made her a criminal, and do nothing while they three starved.  

The elevator continued its descent, so he figured she’d accepted his silence as an answer.

“You’re okay?” His voice surprised him when he asked it, and he imagined it surprised her as well; he felt her eyes on his head again.

“Good, yeah.” Something in her voice made him look up. Her dark eyes were unreadable, her face even more so, and Bellamy looked away just as quickly.

The elevator dinged, and the digital display read Sub-G; Harper stepped towards the doors.

“Okay. Well, goodnight.”

“Yeah, goodnight,” he said automatically.

But the doors didn’t open.

He heard Harper pressing the button, twice, three times, then a slow exhale.

“That’s great, isn’t it,” she muttered, and understanding dawned.

He was stuck in an elevator with the McIntyre princess.

She took it pretty well, all things considered. Pressed the button again, just for good measure, then tried the call button.

“They turn it off after midnight,” Bellamy said helpfully, just as the line buzzed into silence.

“What’s the logic behind that?”

“Most people take the Civilian elevators.”

She made a _yeah that checks out_ face, and stepped back from the panel. Then she sat down.

“I should tell you,” she said, tone nothing but conversational, “I’m wildly claustrophobic.”

Bellamy’s head snapped up; she didn’t look claustrophobic. She looked out of place in an freight elevator, her medical scrubs peaking out from under the bright blue of an upper class sweater, a  strong contrast to the dingy machinery. But then...her foot was tapping quickly on the floor of the elevator, her eyes closed as she tilted her head back against the walls, her arms wrapped around herself, fisted in the blue cashmere. Now that he was looking, her breathing was too coordinated to be natural, and her pulse was flickering rapidly at her neck.

“Okay,” Bellamy said stupidly. “Uh, okay. What can I do?”

“Get us out?”

He winced. “Other than that.”

“Not much,” she said.

And this time, he heard it, a strain on her voice, an almost imperceptible tremor hidden in propriety.

He thought of O, and how she got like this sometimes. How he could hear her fighting to keep her breathing steady, under the floorboards, and what calmed her when she could finally come out.

“Would...” he hesitated, hoping she wouldn’t take this the wrong way. “Would a hand help?”

“Yes,” she said immediately.

Bellamy tried not to overthink it, just crossed over to the other side of the elevator and sat next to her. He was careful to keep their shoulders from touching, figuring she was probably still a little spooked from the Senior Guard incident, but lay his hand on the cool linoleum of the floor, palm up.

Harper didn’t hesitate, letting go of her sweater and slipping her hand into his. She squeezed so tightly that he didn’t notice at first that she’d woven her fingers between his, instead of just resting her hand in his palm.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and Bellamy wondered if he’d lose circulation.

“Sure.”

They sat in silence, not much to say between the Cadet and the Aristocracy.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

He wasn’t surprised that she broke it, but he’d kind of been hoping that she wouldn’t.

“Is it so hard to believe I’m a nice guy?” He meant it to sound like a joke, but it fell a little flat.

“Nice guys don’t knock their superiors out with a right hook. Or smuggle extra rations under their uniform. It’s like you’re...protecting me. Or something.”

He didn’t know how she’d noticed the rations, or why she breezed by it so quickly, but he supposed that yeah, that summed it up pretty nicely.

“Returning a favor, I guess.”

Harper’s eyes opened, as she turned to look at him, and Bellamy would be lying if he said his breath didn’t catch a bit in his throat. They weren’t that close, but they were closer than he’d been with most anyone in a while, and he thought absently, that her hazel eyes held flecks of obsidian.

“How do you mean?”

And that wasn’t good, because when she spoke, his eyes automatically fell to her mouth and yep, the childhood crush was apparently back with a vengeance.

“Uh,” Bellamy cleared his throat, even as Harper tilted her head, curious, and he had to look away. He shrugged a bit, held out the hand she wasn’t holding into the air in front of them. “How does that look?”

“What am I looking at?”

He turned his hand, waving at the wall. “My wrist. Full range of movement.”

“I don’t get it.”

He looked sideways at her. Her eyes were narrowed a bit in concentration, her lips pursed. Her grip on his hand had loosened.

“You set that,” he said quietly. “I was just past 15. And this,” he lifted the hand she was holding and used his healed-wrist to push up the sleeves of his uniform, showing the faint scarring against his skin, “you gave me salve to heal these over.”

Harper stared at his arm.

He wondered if she realized her grip had loosened to allow her thumb to move carefully along the outside of his pinky finger, but he wasn’t about to call attention to it. Not when it felt so natural and like the most comforting thing he could think of.

And he was supposed to be soothing her.

“That was my job, though.”

It took him a minute to catch up to what she was talking about—the medical visits and the stitches and patch-ups and pain medications.

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “But you didn’t have to be nice about it. Ergo, me returning the favor.”

Harper exhaled a laugh. “Ergo?”

Bellamy’s ears burned. “It’s Latin.”

Harper smiled. “No, I know. I just...I haven’t heard anyone actually say it aloud in a while; most people only ever write it in essays.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t. Truthfully, he was just happy she was more relaxed.

One of them had shifted, he wasn’t sure who, but their shoulders were touching now. He tried not to think about the knit of her sweater, soft with affluence, against the starched fabric of his uniform.

“I think I had a bit of a crush on you.”

She said it so casually, so calmly, that Bellamy thought he must have misheard her. But he looked down at her, and she was smiling a little to herself. Her eyes had closed again, but he could see the memories playing behind them.

“Why?” He blurted, despite himself. Truly, what could she have seen in the scared, wild, boy he’d been?

But Harper’s smile widened, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Are you kidding me?”

Of course he wasn’t; she’s Harper McIntyre, she could have literally anyone on the ship. When he didn’t say anything, her head tipped to the side.

“I think it was the freckles, at first,” she said, voice wandering. “Nobody I knew had them and my grandmother had told me a story about angel kisses...and you always looked so nervous. I wanted to fix that. Wanted you to relax a bit, and I thought if I fixed your wrist, maybe you’d be alright. Then it was your arm, then your...”

She trailed off, and blinked. She sat up a bit, turned to him, eyes intent. The hand he wasn’t holding hovered between them, and her finger traced the scar on his upper lip. Her eyes followed her finger, her long lashes fluttering and her touch gentle. Feather light, careful, soft and wondering.

She opened her mouth to say something, Bellamy couldn’t imagine what, but then she blinked slowly and she looked up at him. They were much closer than shoulders-away, now, and it seemed to occur to both of them at the same moment. Harper didn’t say anything; her mouth closed uncertainly, like she’d forgotten.

Her finger moved, curious, from under his nose to the bow in his lip. Her touch was slow, reverent, and she traced the slope down to the edge of his mouth and Bellamy thought her breath caught, but he couldn’t be sure, and he reached up, his fingers wrapping around her wrist.

He was holding her, he realized, not pushing her away.

And there were lots of lines, lots of things he’d said to other women or words he’d whispered in naive fantasies when he was younger, kinder, more easily hurt. But now, with Harper’s eyes so close and wide in front of him, her fingers hovering above his cheek, breath a little shallow, Bellamy couldn’t think of one of them.

“I'm going to kiss you, okay?” he asked, had to be certain, needed her to say yes, but knowing if she told him not to, like every vestige of reason would suggest, that he’d respect that.

But the obsidian in her eyes glistened, and she dipped her chin, slightly. “Please,” she whispered.  

There wasn’t much distance between them, but it was still the sweetest relief when he felt her soft lips under his. Harper sighed against him, her hand pulling from his wrist to rest on his jaw, then sliding up into his hair. She tasted like rationed coffee and she kissed like she wasn’t royalty. Just a girl with soft eyes, and soft hands, and a soft heart, who’d spent years wondering what angel kisses were like.


End file.
